


The Parasite - Male Version

by Kompera



Category: Original Work
Genre: Belly Expansion, Belly Kink, Birth, Breast Expansion, Forcedfeeding, Lactation, Male Lactation, Mpreg, Pregnancy, Stuffing, Unbirth, Weight Gain, male belly expansion, male breast expansion, male expansion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:35:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22009768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kompera/pseuds/Kompera
Summary: Following infection by an alien parasite, Charles begins to hear a commanding voice in his head that demands him to stuff his face with food, massage various body parts, insert edibles into his orifices, and partake in other unusual activities. Charles’s belly grows and grows as the parasite swells in consequence. Charles’s efforts to balance his busy work life with the frightening voice of the parasite proves to be disastrous.Contains:Male: Belly expansion, breast expansion, possible egg-laying and more.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 56





	1. Chapter 1

Charles was a slim young man of twenty-six. His dark brown hair hung in his eyes. At present, he drew it back with his fingers as he pulled his car into the vacant four-car driveway and lifted his sunglasses to the top of his head.  
  
Since he was a small child, Charles had spent his weekends at his family’s lake house just outside of the city.  
  
Through decades had passed, and the rest of Charles’s family rarely managed to uphold the tradition, Charles still made sure to venture out to the country every weekend, now enjoying the solitary peace of life by the lake. In some ways, it had become his method of decompressing after a long week of work.  
  
It was one such weekend. Charles unlocked the door to the large cabin and stepped through the threshold. _All to myself._ He smiled as he lowered his duffle bag to the ground beside him.  
  
Wasting no time, Charles dug out his swim trunks. He wanted to savor as much of the morning sunlight that the first day of the weekend had to offer.  
  
Charles walked into a bathroom and quickly changed into a pair of short, tight-fitting black trunks. He grabbed his sunblock and cellphone before leaving the house and heading straight for the lake.  
  
The grass was green as ever, the sun beaming, and the property vacant. It was hot but slightly breezy. The conditions couldn’t have been more perfect for the swim.  
  
But as Charles lowered his things and walked to the edge of the lake, he was stunned that the ordinarily blue water was extremely dark and had taken on an almost…purplish hue. He blinked a few times, wondering whether his eyes were deceiving him. Charles looked around. _Sky—blue,_ he catalogued._ Grass—green. Trees—brown._ Nothing else seemed amiss.  
  
Charles could not imagine how the lake water could have undergone such a significant and unnatural change since the last time Charles had taken a dip, only six days before. There were no signs of pollutants. It almost seemed chemical. But who would dump chemicals into his family’s lake?  
  
With a sigh, Charles settled down on the grass, deciding against going into the water that day. He would simply have to wait until next weekend, and see if the water returned to normal. If not, he would consult his father on the matter. But as things were, swimming didn’t seem like a safe idea.  
  
So Charles sat there in the grass, and continued to gaze at the still water. There was something foreboding about it. And yet its allure seemed to grow the longer he sat there staring.  
  
Lightly shaking his head, Charles pulled his sunglasses back down over his eyes. He stood, and stripped off his trunks. _Sunbathing then,_ he decided, before laying himself back down on the grass.  
  
It was not the way Charles had wanted to end his stressful work week, but it would just have to do. A contented smile spread over his face as the sun’s rays seemed to permeate his frigid body. Charles stretched himself out one more time, and promptly fell asleep.  
  
Charles awoke late in the afternoon, disappointed to realize that the air had chilled, and the sun was much lower in the sky. He lifted up his cellphone and gave it a glance, to notice that he had numerous new messages from his job. It would undoubtedly be a long night.  
  
_No rest for the weary_, Charles mused with a sigh. He got up and threw one more glance at the lake. It was still purple, now glowing brightly under the low sun. The sight of it was truly bizarre, and Charles could not help taking moments to stare at it.  
  
Charles stepped a bit closer to the lake, lifting his phone, and taking a few pictures that he intended to send to his mother. He could probably send some of the photos to the local environmental protection agency—maybe get the water tested. Just as Charles snapped the last picture, his phone managed to slip on some unabsorbed sunblock in his palm. Charles gasped as his phone fell from his hands and dropped onto the muddy banks, less than an inch from the water.  
  
Without hesitation, Charles began to carefully climb down on the muddy bank, his right big toe hitting the purple water as he reached for his phone. Suddenly his foot slipped, his whole body becoming unbalanced, and Charles dropped into the water, fully submerged.  
  
It may have only been seconds but it felt like minutes that he thrashed beneath the ice cold water, unable to distinguish up from down. His anus tingled strangely—it felt like something was almost…_pushing _through his puckered skin. As Charles shuddered, he involuntarily took in some gulps of water and nearly drowned, when his hand suddenly connected with mud.  
  
Charles pulled himself up onto the river bank. He looked around for his phone, but it was long gone. He climbed back onto the grass, coughing and gasping. Strangely, his anus was aching and his dick was hard, now arbitrarily seeping pre-come.  
  
Shaking water from his hair, Charles grabbed up his swim trunks and headed back into the house. He quickly rinsed himself off in the shower. And exhausted, he went to bed.  
  
Though Charles tried his best to get some sleep, most of his night was spent tossing and turning, his insides burning. His face was flushed, and he was drenched in sweat. The times that Charles did manage to doze, he had dreams of pain, and darkness, and a receding, pleasurable sensation, always just beyond his reach. But before he could chase it, he would awaken again, gasping, sweating, his insides seeming to throb.  
  
In the early hours of the morning, the varying sensations suddenly stopped. Utterly exhausted by that point, Charles dropped down into a dreamless slumber.  
  
-  
  
The next morning, Charles trudged into the kitchen. “Eugh.” He felt as though he had been hit by a truck. He wandered over to the fridge. He had it regularly stocked by a grocery delivery service. As Charles lifted a carton of milk, he glanced out the window to the lake, and was surprised to see that the small body of water had returned to its rich color of greenish blue. _What the hell?_ he thought, relieved but also somewhat appalled. What was going on? Was he losing his mind?  
  
Opening the milk carton, Charles brought it to his lips. He took several generous gulps, and had emptied half of the carton before he placed it down on the kitchen counter with a sigh and a wipe of his mouth.  
  
**_More,_** someone growled.  
  
Charles looked around, startled. The voice had come from nowhere, and yet it seemed to have blossomed from within his head. “Hello?” he called in uncertainty. His heart was pounding, he had no phone, and there was possibly a trespasser in his family’s cabin. It was either that, or he truly had gone insane.  
  
Charles fumbled in a drawer for something to arm himself with, but the sharpest thing he could find was a fork.  
  
**_More,_** the voice repeated.  
  
Now Charles was almost certain of it. The voice had come from inside his head. He heard the fork clatter to the floor. “W-what?” he stammered. _Dammit_. He shouldn’t respond!_ I need to go,_ Charles decided. _I need to get help._ He started for the living room to get his keys and his duffle bag.  
  
But the moment Charles stepped out of the kitchen, he was consumed by an icy chill that couldn’t have been mental. It left him shivering so violently that he had to grip onto the wall. His head throbbed as the voice spoke again.  
  
**_More…consume…more!_** it boomed. It seemed neither male nor female, but inhuman…feral.  
  
Charles staggered back into the kitchen, and the sensation of coldness began to recede. He didn’t understand what the voice wanted, but something brought him back to the milk carton on the kitchen counter. With a trembling hand, he lifted it to his lips, and drank hurriedly, small trickles of the white liquid trailing down either side of his chin. He drank and drank, until he had emptied the carton, and his stomach felt full to bursting. He then lowered the carton, and waited in silence for further instruction. However the voice in his head said no more.  
  
-  
  
Charles didn’t trust himself to take the hour-long drive back to the city. Though it was only his first day in the cabin, there were too many eerie things going on for him to feel comfortable staying for the rest of the weekend. He waited impatiently for his cab to arrive, after which he hurriedly climbed into the back seat. He dropped his head and closed his eyes, intending to leave the purple lake, restless sleep, and disembodied voices behind. He would have to think long and hard before he ventured back to the country. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more of my stories, visit my **[DeviantArt gallery](https://www.deviantart.com/komperaklause).**
> 
> ** [Story Schedule](https://www.deviantart.com/komperaklause/journal/Story-Access-Schedule-572949651) **


	2. Chapter 2

That night, safely tucked into his bed, Charles tossed and turned in his sleep over several hours, until he was roused entirely awake.   
  
He sat up in bed, restless, and panting, but not sure what had awoken him. He felt as though he’d had a dream that he couldn’t quite remember. And that’s when he heard it.   
  
**Eat…**   
  
Charles shifted uncomfortably. It was that voice in his head again. He had been certain that he had left it behind, at the lake house. He tried to shake it off. Maybe he was _still_ dreaming. Charles lowered himself back down on the bed, and squeezed his eyes shut.   
  
But the voice persisted.   
  
**Eat…** it commanded, somewhat louder in volume than it had been before.   
  
Charles squirmed and tried to ignore it. He gripped at his pillow and squeezed it against his ears.   
  
**_Eat!_** the voice boomed, growing yet louder. Charles could feel himself starting to get a headache.   
  
Why did the voice want him to eat? Why was he hearing voices at all? But the longer he tried to ignore it, the more aggressive the voice seemed to become. Soon a coldness washed over him, and his body started shivering. Worse, the pain in his skull had exacerbated to the sensation of an ice pick stabbing into his brain.   
  
The command was constant now, a rhythmic booming, that made Charles cringe every time it shot through him. Somehow he climbed out of bed and staggered down to his kitchen. He opened his fridge and blindly began to stuff food into his mouth, until slowly, but surely, the voice began to calm down.   
  
The voice continued to urge him to eat, but less abrasively now. It encouraged him every moment or so, an order for him not to stop just yet.   
  
Charles worked his way through packages of cold cuts, some leftover pasta and chicken thighs, a package of sliced bread, and half a gallon of egg nog he had from the holidays. He felt rushes of warmth as he ate, and it felt good. It felt _right _to follow the commands of the voice, and this unnerved him to some extent.   
  
Finally, when even the whispered orders of the voice had ceased, Charles slowed his steady process of gorging himself. He gulped down the last piece of cold salami in his mouth, before returning what remained in the package to the fridge door, and waited.   
  
The voice was gone.   
  
_Maybe I’m going mad,_ Charles thought in uncertainty. That would be the most logical explanation for this. Feeling unnerved, he lowered himself back into his bed—wincing—his stomach aching from the abuse. Before he could not deliberate on the matter any longer, his combined fullness and exhaustion ensuring that he promptly fell asleep.   
  
When Charles awoke the next morning, he almost thought it had all been a dream. But the continued tightness in his belly didn’t seem to contradict this suspicion. Rather than risking it, Charles packed his briefcase with copious amounts of snacks, before getting washed, dressed, and heading off to his job at the local bank.   
  
It was close to noon when the first faint command made itself known. **Eat…**   
  
Charles’s eyes shot wide open. Rather than risking things escalating, as they had the night before, he quickly rummaged in his briefcase and stuffed an oreo cookie into his mouth. Whenever Charles was certain that he was neither being scrutinized by his boss, coworkers, nor customers, he stuffed his mouth with more cookies, crackers, and chips. His usually flat stomach felt uncomfortably bloated in his fitted slacks, but he felt as though he had no choice but to continue to eat, as the voice wanted, at least until the end of the work day.   
  
Things proceeded as such over the rest of the week. Charles stocked up on groceries, and found himself climbing out of bed at least once a night to indulge the commands of the voice before it got too aggressive. The orders were always the same. “Eat” or “consume” being the extent of its vocabulary. And heeding it, Charles managed to get by, except, he noticed that his pants had tightened, his shirts now stretched against his usually lean body.   
  
He was gaining weight. Charles would not have minded too much, however, most of what he ate seemed to surge directly to his stomach. It wasn’t horrible. He was just getting slightly…rounder. All things considered, he could have done to put on some weight. And if the alternative was being committed, Charles would happily tolerate it, and ignore the more _demanding_ problem.   
  
The voice’s vocabulary seemed to be increasing. Now it said “eat” and “consume” in addition to “feed,” “more,” and “faster.”   
  
It said “more,” quite often now, and never seemed to be sated. Charles tried to snack slowly and discreetly, stuffing a piece of pastry into his mouth at least ever few minutes.   
  
One day, Charles had attempted to indulge the voice only with vegetables, and things had not gone well. No matter how many cucumber slices he ate, the voice grew louder, until Charles’s head was throbbing, his body shaking violently, and he’d had no choice but to insist on an abrupt break from work, hurry off to the nearby drugstore, and almost blindly purchase several packages of chips.   
  
His chest was getting softer, anthills developing there. His bottom was swelling as well, tightly stretching his dress pants. His belly seemed more like a _beer belly_ now, full and round, but still quite soft to the touch. It was no longer capable of being tucked into his trousers, instead pushing the waist down, stretching his shirts, bobbing awkwardly, and making him look as though he was a five-month _pregnant man_.   
  
His face was getting fuller as well. Charles examined himself in his bathroom mirror one evening. He ran his fingers over his plumpening figure, shivering slightly as they slid over his sensitive chest. He could hardly stand to put on any more weight. But even then, he could sense the voice thrumming, just below the surface of his consciousness, planning its next command.   
  
Charles reluctantly left the bathroom and padded towards the kitchen, bulging somewhat from the undone buttons of his trousers, and suspecting that this was another article of clothing that he would not be able to squeeze into come the morning.   
  
He walked to his kitchen counter, and grabbed a banana from the bunch. It was starchy. It should suffice. He unpeeled it and took a bite, unconsciously cringing as he forced the fruit into his already-full stomach.   
  
He was confused by the command that followed.   
  
**Lower…**   
  
Charles dropped his arm holding the banana in shock, the peeled fruit now level with his waist.   
  
**Mmm…**   
  
He stood there stunned, not understanding the noise at all. The voice seemed almost…human…lately.   
  
**Lower…**   
  
Charles lowered the banana farther. He hesitated, and rested it back on the counter, somewhat relieved that he didn’t have to gorge himself anymore.   
  
**EATTT!!!** the voice screamed.   
  
Charles nearly jumped. Shaking now, he quickly lifted the banana back to his lips, and munched.   
  
**Lower…lower…**   
  
Charles couldn’t understand. The voice wanted the banana…lower? But not on the table? He experimentally waved the banana, eventually lowering it along the length of his body, from his waist to his hips.   
  
**Mmm…**   
  
This whole situation was insane. Charles hesitated, and pushed down his trousers, groaning in relief as more of his body popped out, free of constriction. Breathing, he pushed the trousers down to the ground, and stepped out of them, so that now he stood there, in just his shirt and briefs.   
  
**More…feed…lower…**   
  
Charles shivered as a tingling iciness swept over his shoulders. Unthinkingly, he pushed down his briefs, and aligned the banana with his groin. Slowly, he shifted the banana behind him.   
  
**Mmm…yes…**   
  
This was insanity! But the voice hummed its approval as Charles spread his thighs. “You want me…to put it…” The voice did not respond, it just continued to hum.   
  
Charles spread his ass cheeks and pressed the banana between them, shuddering as he did. He felt entirely ridiculous as he spread himself farther, and _pushed_, and was shocked when his opening strangely _stretched _to faciliate the passage of the banana, even though the banana should have logically been crushed. Instead it slipped easily inside of him, as Charles groaned and fidgeted uncomfortably, pushing it as far as he could, until something inside of him seemed to…suck it up! His eyes snapped open as the banana disappeared from the reach of even his finger. It was plain weird, and he was stunned.   
  
**Mooree…**   
  
_Oh god,_ Charles thought, looking at the remainder of the bunch of bananas, still sitting on his counter. Taking a gulp, he reached out, detached one, and began to peel it, almost mechanically. He then repeated the process of _feeding _the fruit to his anus. With a grunt, he squatted down to give it easier access, feeling strange, and aroused, and as though, perhaps he should visit the hospital after all.   
  
Only when all of the bananas were gone, did the voice disappear. Panting a bit, Charles clumsily climbed to his feet, feeling sore, fully anticipating a horrible infection by morning time. He hesitated, before slipping his pointer finger into his hole, expecting to feel banana residue. But it was strangely clean. There was no trace of what he had done to himself, except for a tingling soreness, and an uncomfortable tightness in his gut. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Rub…**  
  
Charles’s eyes snapped open. He looked around the room, slightly disoriented. He could tell it was morning, though it was still dark out.  
  
**Rub…** The voice’s vocabulary seemed to be increasing.  
  
_What?_ was all Charles could think in his confusion, still trying to blink away the remnants of slumber. He rubbed his hands together, but the voice only became more insistent.  
  
**Rub…rub…**  
  
Charles tried rubbing his hands over his arms. And then, slightly disgusted with himself, he approached his torso, starting with his shoulders, fingers kneading into the thin layer of recent weight gain.  
  
**Lower…**  
  
Lips thinning, Charles rubbed his hands over his chest. He groaned as his fingers glided over his nipples, which had grown larger, and more sensitive in recent days. At present, they were erect and sore, so he was quick to move his hands down to his bloated belly.  
  
**Mmmm…**  
  
Charles continued to mechanically rub his stomach, oblivious of the logic behind the arbitrary instructions. But he knew that if he followed them, there was no screaming in his head, and no pain or coldness. So he continued to do as he was told. It was hardly a sacrifice.  
  
He rubbed his hands over the plump mound of fat that had become of his belly, the voice falling silent, but a contented humming filling his head. For some reason, he glided his fingers under his shirt, and up his chest. He gently fondled it again. The voice didn’t complain. Charles grunted slightly as he carefully stroked his hard, swollen nipples, deriving pleasure this time rather than pain.  
  
**Squeeze…** said the voice.  
  
Charles reddened slightly, but cupped the flesh gently. He applied pressure, squeezing it in his grasp. Then he continued to rub them, and took his nipples between his fingers. He tentatively pressed, causing a sharp gasp to escape his throat.  
  
His chest had gotten yet plumper. They could probably qualify as A-cups by then, if not worse. Charles had taken to wearing layers, hoping to hide the two embarrassing mounds on his chest.  
  
He climbed out of bed once the voice seemed satisfied with his compliance. He grabbed up his towel and headed to the bathroom to get washed.  
  
Over the next few days, he continued to eat in increasing amounts. And he continued to—be forced—to push food into his anus. He didn’t know how it was even possible to consume food in such a way, or why it was somehow necessary. He just knew that when he pushed food into his hole, and it disappeared inside of him, he was rewarded with the same sensation of fullness that he got when he swallowed food down his throat—perhaps even greater.  
  
The commands were keen and relentless, and Charles found himself pushing meat balls, chocolate bars, sausages, and chunks of bread into himself. On one occasion, he even jammed an entire roll of cookie dough into himself. It was disgusting, and slightly nauseating, as his belly tightened and the voice hummed in delight.  
  
“I would like to make a deposit,” said his first customer that morning.  
  
Charles offered a weary smile and slid over a deposit slip.  
  
**Feed…** the voice ordered, causing Charles to furrow his brows. It was still so early.  
  
As the customer continued to fill out a deposit slip, Charles discreetly reached into his shoulder bag beneath the counter, and slid his hand into a box of donut holes he had picked up from a bakery that morning. He quickly stuffed one into his mouth, and gulped it down just before the client looked back up at him.  
  
“Thank you,” he said, accepting the slip and the check, and depositing it into the account. “And here is your receipt.”  
  
**Feed!** The voice was impatient.  
  
The client tottered off, and thankfully, no others followed. Charles threw a quick glance around the bank, but none of his coworkers were paying attention to him. Jittery by then, he stuffed several more donut holes into his mouth, and chomped them down.  
  
**Lower.**  
  
Charles nearly groaned. He pushed his chair back and grabbed his shoulder bag, intending to head to the bathroom.  
  
“Taking a break already?” said his boss, Sue, who was passing. She stopped and raised her brow at him. “Everything alright, Charles? You’ve been stepping out a lot lately.” Her eyes flickered to his rounded belly.  
  
“No, erm…” Charles returned to his seat. “I was just making sure I had enough receipt paper.” He opened a drawer and pretended to fumble around.  
  
Still giving him an intent look, Sue nodded, and walked off.  
  
By then, pulses of coldness were rolling down Charles’s spine, and the voice’s commands had increased in intensity.  
  
**Feed…lower…feed…FEED…**  
  
Another customer arrived. “I would like to withdraw…” she rambled on, though Charles could hardly seem to hear her.  
  
“Right,” said Charles, trembling. His head was pounding. With one hand, he typed on his computer, though he couldn’t say he was certain what he was doing. With his other hand, he reached back into his shoulder bag, now withdrawing a stick of string cheese from a large package.  
  
Thankfully, the counter offered a decent overhang to his lap, and no one was paying close attention to him anyway. Though it wouldn’t have made much of a difference. Charles was feeling faint.  
  
As he continued to pretend to observe his computer screen, pressing buttons and mumbling something about an “error message,” Charles single-handedly undid his belt. He leaned back and lifted his hips, discreetly sliding his arm into his waistband. He was hardly able to withhold a groan as the cool stick of cheese made contact with his hole.  
  
He was already sore from the daily abuse from the varied foods he was forced to cram inside of him. His face flushed as the cheese stick slipped easily into his body.  
  
“Sir…” the customer was speaking, perhaps repeating herself after saying it several times already. “Sir? Are you alright?”  
  
Charles straightened in his seat, feeling only slightly more lucid. “Uhm…yes. Yes, fine, thanks,” he said politely, giving the customer a peculiar look, as though she was the odd one. He quickly opened the client’s account on his console and withdrew $200 from it. He placed it into an envelope and passed it over, praying it was the correct amount.  
  
The customer didn’t even check. She was still looking strangely at him, like somehow she knew what he had been up to under the counter. Charles’s cheeks darkened and the customer walked off, pocketing the money, still not bothering to count it.  
  
**More…more…** the voice pressed.  
  
Charles withdrew two more cheese sticks from his shoulder bag. He spread his thighs and pressed them into him, one at a time. As a grunt managed to escape his throat, his colleague, Sam, sent a glare from the next window. Charles could hardly care. The stabbing coldness slipped away from his spine, as did the sharpness of the voice on his temple. He rubbed it, despite himself, as he retrieved another two cheese sticks from his shoulder bag. And so the day proceeded.  
  
By the time Charles got home that evening, he was full and exhausted. His boss seemed especially wary of him, which had severely imposed on his ability to sneak off for extra breaks. The voice was more persistent than ever, and Charles had found himself consistently fumbling in his slacks to stuff more food into his anus. By the end of the day, he had gone through the donut holes, the rest of the cheese sticks, and half a dozen hot dogs as well.  
  
He groaned in discomfort as his fingers made contact with his skin-tight button-down. He felt full and bloated, and even a little nauseous. He cringed as the voice returned, more potent than ever:  
  
**Feed…feed me…more…more…**  
  
_Me?_ Charles wondered, as he dragged himself to the kitchen. Not for the first time, he wondered whether the voice was symptomatic of mental illness, or if it was somehow—_apart_ from him. Though the “me” it implied must have been _himself_, his _own _commands, which seemed indicative of the former, and Charles tried not to think about it.  
  
Either prospect was unpleasant, and he couldn’t deal with them right now. Instead, Charles flung his fridge open, and immediately cursed under his breath.  
  
He had forgotten to go grocery shopping. He had been decidedly distracted. The only food he could spot was some old pasta, globs of mozzarella, some sticks of butter, and another roll of cookie dough.  
  
Charles impatiently loaded the cheese, butter, and dough into his arms and puttered off to his bedroom, before the voice could get too severe. He dropped himself on his bed, wrinkling his nose as his belly jiggled seconds after his body had stilled, as did the small mounds on his chest. Shamelessly jerking down his pants and spreading his legs wide, Charles reached down and fingered himself for several minutes, his face reddening as he loosened his hole. He then grabbed up the stick of butter, unwrapped it, and with a frustrated moan, began to shove it into his opening, his belly heaving, and legs trembling as the butter started to melt as it slid its way through.  
  
It took only moments for him to work through the three other butter sticks, and the roll of cookie dough. By the time he had stuffed them into him, he was sore, and the voice had stopped its griping, so he ate the mozzarella by mouth.  
  
When he was finished, he laid there panting heavily, chest rising and falling, mounds wiggling. Diamonds of skin had begun to appear in his shirt buttons. Fingers trembling slightly, Charles opened them one by one, allowing his rounded gut to surge through, plump and pressurized as it was. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more of my stories, visit my **[DeviantArt gallery](https://www.deviantart.com/komperaklause).**
> 
> ** [Story Schedule](https://www.deviantart.com/komperaklause/journal/Story-Access-Schedule-572949651) **


	4. Chapter 4

Charles tried his best to compensate at work for his frequent breaks and the voice’s continual demands. During his temporary reprieves from the voice, he put in bursts of effort so not to fall behind. Charles also found himself staying late at the bank more often than not, volunteering to balance out the registers, participate in cleanup, and supervise the evening vault checks with the security team. He hoped that it showed a general picture of composure and attentiveness rather than the fluster and panic that he was truly experiencing.   
  
Charles’s efforts seemed to backfire, however. “A promotion?” he said in astonishment. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.   
  
“I’ve noticed all the hard work you’ve been putting in lately,” said his boss, Sue, who was seated opposite him behind her broad mahogany desk. “And you’ve always been frank about your aspirations to become a banker. I think it’s time.” Sue reached out, offering her hand.   
  
Ironically enough, this was the worst time that his promotion could have come through. Despite it, Charles numbly reached out and accepted the handshake. His knuckles rubbed together as Sue gripped his hand far too hard. She gave it a firm shake and let go.   
  
“We already moved you into Jim’s old office.”   
  
“Right,” Charles managed.   
  
“Keep up the good work.” Sue gave a nod, and Charles climbed out of his chair, knowing that the meeting was over.   
  
Rather than checking out his inherited office, Charles felt his body carrying him outside. He walked down the sidewalk into an alcove on the side of the building that was surrounded by hedges intended to hide some pipes from view. His coworker, Parker, was there, taking a cigarette break. Charles leaned on the wall and stared blankly at the way his rounded belly bloated out over the waistband of his pants making him look as though he was six months _pregnant_. It wouldn’t be long before the voice was active again.   
  
“Smoke?” said Parker, holding out his box of cigarettes.   
  
“Um…no…thanks,” said Charles. He didn’t mention how the last time he had indulged in the occasional habit had resulted in the voice screaming in protest, causing his head to feel like it might split in two.   
  
He took a few more deep breaths of the cool air, before pushing himself off the wall and going back inside.   
  
Over the next few days, Charles was immersed in client meetings as he slowly adapted to his increase in responsibilities. The voice was keener than ever, and Charles was reluctantly relieved to find that having his own desk offered the added benefit of discretion when the voice began its frequent demands.   
  
His belly was low, plump, and round, squishing against his lap when he sat down. Sometimes Charles could feel his coworkers staring at his increasingly taut shirts, though they proved too polite to inquire about his rapid weight gain.   
  
The mounds on his chest had gotten breast-like and _womanly_, probably B-cups by then. They had gotten very bloated and full. Uncomfortable and _tingly_. Lately they felt sore, and his nipples were positively _aching_.   
  
He was growing and growing, but doing his best to adapt to his unusual circumstances.   
  
One morning Charles was hosting a client breakfast in one of the meeting rooms at the bank. He was wearing a pair of trousers, the belt jammed down to make way for his rounded abdomen. It was uncomfortable, but not enough to distract him from his work duties; he wanted to get the meeting over with quickly. He ran his hand over his button-down shirt. It was a newer purchase, but already quite tight at his chest and stomach. He hated how evident it made his bloated profile the way it was tucked into his trousers, though the alternative was looking yet more unprofessional.   
  
He just hoped it wasn’t too obvious that he wasn’t wearing his usual bands of athletic bandages around his chest. Instead, he had just pulled on a restrictive undershirt. The bandages had become uncomfortable anyway, his chest far too tender now to tolerate being compressed so much. His mounds were continuously sweaty, nipples hard and swollen and almost unnaturally erect. He was sure that they stuck out in the shirt, where they rubbed rousingly on the hard cotton. He just hoped that the customers were too polite to take notice.   
  
He tried not to meet any of their eyes. He certainly didn’t glimpse the stares.   
  
Charles quickly passed out leaflets and started the projector, before going over the benefits of varying business accounts.   
  
As Charles presented, the clients absently munched on eggs, bacon, bagels, cream cheese, donuts, sausages, fruits, and a variety of other delicious breakfast foods on an elaborate spread in the center of the meeting table.   
  
Charles tried not to pay the food any mind, though he could feel his innards beginning to thrum, as though agitated. He did his best to ignore it, and continued the presentation, more hurriedly.   
  
**Hungry…** the voice said, finally.   
  
It was a new word in its vocabulary, and spoken in a rather elegant, possibly even _female _voice. Charles was so stunned, he stopped mid-sentence. When Mr. Cortez cleared his throat in the otherwise silent room, Charles immediately regained himself, and tried to remember where he had left off. “So, uhm, in conclusion, I’d like to welcome you to explore the lucrative investment options offered to our more loyal customers, such as yourself. Any questions?” He hoped there would be no questions. To his dismay, Mrs. Rivington raised her hand.   
  
**Hungry…must eat… You. Must. Eat…**   
  
After barely hearing Mrs. Rivington’s query, Charles rambled on, hoping that he was somehow addressing the question. He could feel the coldness beginning to trickle down his spine, slow and steady. His mind was throbbing. He needed to wrap this up.   
  
“Since there are no more inquiries,” said Charles, blatantly ignoring the clients who did look like they had something to say, “I would like to thank you all for coming. Enjoy the rest of your afternoon.”   
  
As the clients filtered out of the room, taking their time, Charles shook their hands one by one, and kept to monosyllabic responses when they tried to start conversation with him.   
  
**Need food. Need food NOW!**   
  
When the last client was finally gone, Charles was trembling. He had snacks in his office. He just needed to get there.   
  
Charles made for the door, but a sharp pain shot through his skull, making him reel slightly. He couldn’t walk through the bank in such a sorry state.   
  
Instead Charles dizzily closed the blinds and locked the door. He staggered to the table, hoping there was something to salvage, at least until he could get back to his office and the cover of his desk.   
  
**EAT!!!**   
  
Charles shuddered, and blinked a few times. He was stunned that there was nothing left of the breakfast spread. Well, nothing, except for an ear of corn that seemed more of a decorative display than something intended to eat for breakfast.   
  
Just looking at the uncut corn made him wince, but Charles grabbed it up, desperate by then. He collapsed to his knees and dropped to his back on the uncomfortable rug, partially shielded by the meeting table. He drew his knees up and spread them wide.   
  
**EAT…EAT…MUST…EAT…**   
  
Charles cupped one side of his chest, groaning at how _full _it felt, both mounds now pulling hard on his shirt buttons due to his position supine there on the ground. With his free hand, he desperately undid his trousers, sucked his pointer finger, and slipped his hand into his boxers to stroke his hole. He dove in and stretched himself hurriedly. Another shudder accompanied the ice cold pain twisting at his insides. Was he getting **off **on this?   
  
**MUST…MUST…EAT…NOW…**   
  
The voice’s little eloquence was gone in lieu of a pressing urgency. Charles’s thighs trembled as he wigged out of his boxers, his vision going in and out from the explosive pains reverberating in his head. He slid the corn’s tapered end to his entrance, squeezed his eyes shut, and pushed it in.   
  
Despite seeming decorative, the corn was cooked to his relief, which was more than he could have hoped for.   
  
Charles groaned as he pushed harder, feeling himself stretch painfully, until his eyes began to tear. He rocked his hips compulsively as the corn pushed farther and farther through his opening. Soon his fingers had dipped through, and the end of the corn disappeared, as food usually did, slipping inside him completely, as though being sucked by some internal force.   
  
**Good…** the voice praised. **Good…**   
  
Charles lay there gasping, holding his belly, which felt congruently firm. He could swear he looked seven months pregnant by then. He remained sprawled there, legs spread and ass aching. To his shock, his cock had become partially hard. Charles jerked at the sound of a knock on the door.   
  
“Charles? Do you need any help with clean-up?” his coworker, Frank, called. He rattled the doorknob.   
  
“No!” Charles gasped out, scrambling to fix his trousers. He forced himself back to his feet, hastily tidied up the table, and opened the door. It was only when he had limped to his office that he noticed that the stretched fabric between his shirt buttons had been spread to reveal the plump flesh within. 


	5. Chapter 5

As the days passed, Charles tried to be as compliant as possible. He preemptively stuffed himself before work and during his breaks. He could barely spare the energy it took to eat by mouth anymore. The voice seemed to far prefer food consumed via his anus, though it hardly made sense how he could survive in such a way.  
  
Charles panted in bed one night, where he lay supine with his knees drawn up. His legs were spread wide, and he had just finished a large evening feeding, in hopes to stave off the voice for long enough that he could get a few hours of uninterrupted sleep.  
  
He grunted as he sat upright, his rounded belly squashing against his lap. It was getting larger and larger. Since he’d just had a feeding, his belly was firm and tight. Charles absently rubbed his hand against the side of the mound. He looked as though he was _eight months pregnant_.  
  
But as he tried to make sense of this, his mind went numb, as it usually did. As with the presence of the voice in his head, and the consumption of food via his anus, Charles’s localized weight gain was another thing he just didn’t want to confront.  
  
His face was flushed slightly and moist, errant strands of hair falling to stick to his forehead. He fidgeted somewhat to tug up his boxers. He could no longer see the waistband where it was jammed beneath his gut, and his eyes were drawn to how tight his tanktop now was at his midsection. His gaze shifted to the B-cup _breasts_ he had developed, presently bulging against the neckline of his top. A line of actual _cleavage _was perched directly in his sight, and the mounds were so full and round, they certainly shouldn’t have been attached to a male.  
  
As Charles shifted, he groaned when the fabric of his tight shirt slid over his enlarged nipples. He took a shuddering breath, lightly shook his head, and cupped the underside of his belly.  
  
With another grunt, Charles stood, his back twinging. He yelped at an unfamiliar sensation, and both his hands flew to his navel. What they encountered made his mouth fall open. His belly button had _popped out_. He stared and blankly rubbed the new protrusion.  
  
_This isn’t normal_. The thought crossed Charles’s mind. Even weight gain didn’t result in that.  
  
He allowed his hands to glide all over the swell of his low abdomen. He wasn’t sure exactly when it had _pushed out_, no longer just some weight, but something independent, and blatant, that couldn’t be dismissed as fat. It was starting to get heavy and uncomfortable walking around with it attached to him. When it was in the softer stages, it would bob somewhat, disharmonious with his body, until he stuffed himself all over again.  
  
_Maybe some sort of girdle?_ Charles supposed in mild panic, still perpetually addressing his symptoms and not the actual problem.  
  
On some level, he still believed he was just imagining everything. The voice, the feedings, the rapidly increasing weight—there was no way any of it made sense if it wasn’t imaginary.  
  
And if all this was imagined, was it necessarily a bad thing? He wasn’t a danger to himself or others. He was thriving at work.  
  
“Imagined,” Charles mused aloud, as he made his way to the light switch. He noticed his gait was more _swingy_ than usual, but he bit his lip, and elected to ignore it.  
  
He turned the light off and sunk back into bed, closing his eyes, and continuing to run his hands over his imagined belly.  
  
**Mmmm…** said the voice. Lately it was quite pleased and encouraging. Almost loving.** Soo good. You are a good host…**  
  
Though the increasing eloquence could be a shock at times, it was also sort of comforting. Charles released a sigh as he drifted off. It was certainly a welcome alternative to the aggressive outbursts.  
  
He could live with this.  
  
-  
  
When Charles was at work, he assumed his usual routine of diligent working intermingled with clandestine feedings, all while ignoring the stares, because those, too, were certainly just figments of his imagination.  
  
He sat behind his desk that afternoon, attempting to read a file, and absently rubbing his legs together. He was getting antsy. Was it close to feeding time? Charles glanced at his watch. No, he had just done one twenty minutes ago.  
  
“Mmmgh…” He grunted, shifting somewhat. Everything felt odd, and uncomfortable, and…_warm_. He felt like something was happening…or _going _to happen. Charles leaned back, eyes shut. His heart was racing for some reason.  
  
Charles forced himself up and walked across the office, ignoring the way he now waddled slightly. He closed the blinds and returned to his desk, standing before it, arching his sore back.  
  
His breasts were uncomfortable and _tight_, nipples aching, dull but irritating. He absently unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt, and felt as though he needed to remove his now-uncomfortable undershirt. Belatedly, he realized that he wasn’t wearing one.  
  
He glanced down at the white cotton material of his button-down. It looked tighter on him than it had that morning, which didn’t seem very unusual for him these days. Only today the material was moist with sweat, and seemed to be embarrassingly _pasted _to his chest, confining them almost _painfully_. The material was able to stretch somewhat, but seemed to have exhausted its capacity for his body. The mounds on his chest were easily _C-cups_ by then, round and fat, without even a hint of sagging.  
  
Charles breathed heavily, his chest heaving up and down. He just had to get through the day, that was all.  
  
He marvelled at how low his belly looked, with his breasts so perk and high on his chest. Beneath them were several inches of flat skin over his ribs, before his skin bloated out again, giving way to his large abdomen which was practically bulging out from the bottom of his shirt. He could no longer hope to tuck it into his pants.  
  
Charles continued to breathe deeply, in and out. This was all in his head. He just needed to calm down.  
  
He released a sharp gasp when his breasts seemed to tighten slightly, the shirt growing unbearably confining. Now he could see his areola and the pink splotches of his nipples against the moistening material as it struggled to contain his bloating, figment of a condition.  
  
“Ohhh…” Charles groaned out, hunching slightly and gripping his desk.  
  
**Rub…** The voice ordered. **Rub them.**  
  
Knowing exactly what the voice wanted, Charles hesitated, before raising his free hand to his chest. He whimpered in discomfort as he rubbed his breasts tenderly, raising his opposite hand to simultaneously kneed both mounds, groaning and reddening as he did. Despite his care, he seemed to trigger something.  
  
“Nrrghhhh…” Charles stumbled back, his skin seeming to ignite, growing hotter and hotter. By instinct, he thrust his chest out, causing the shirt to tear, buttons popping across the room. His mounds burst free, bobbing and throbbing, nipples distending visibly, breasts trembling as they tightened. He whimpered in fear.  
  
“Ahhhh!” Charles cried as his nipples began to simultaneously squirt thin streams of—milk!? Gasping for breath, he stared down at himself. “What…” he stammered, momentarily nonplussed. He reached across his desk, fumbling to grasp onto the tissue box. “No, no, no…”  
  
**Yes,** the voice defied him with clear pleasure. **Your body is preparing.**  
  
“P-preparing?” said Charles, as he clumsily applied tissue to his tender, leaking nipples. “Preparing for what?” He watched his swollen—_engorged_—breasts visibly pulse. _Oh god._ He was lactating. This didn’t make sense!  
  
And then Charles froze, and felt like he could hit himself. Why was he talking to the voice? He feebly attempted to pull his shirt back around him, but it seemed like it was several sizes too small.  
  
**You did well, Charles,** said the voice, as Charles gulped. The voice _knew his name!?_  
  
“Oh?” Charles managed, despite himself, his words still quavering.  
  
**Because of you, I have grown strong,** the voice continued. **To put it in terms you might understand, I am now the size of an orange. The energy from your fat stores has allowed me to develop quite impressively. And thrive. In fact, it is almost time to start laying my eggs.**  
  
“What!?” said Charles. His legs shuddered. He somehow dragged himself to his desk, and plopped down, wincing slightly. His breasts wobbled up and down, now releasing persistent droplets that rolled down his stomach.  
  
**It is all due to your hard work,** the voice commended him, its voice slightly strained now. **And now I have…mmm…quite the heavy litter.**  
  
“Wait—stop!” said Charles, completely disconcerted. There was talk of egg-laying, and he didn’t know what that entailed. He didn’t even know what was real and what wasn’t anymore. The size of an orange? Where!? _Inside of him!?_  
  
**Ahhhh,** the voice groaned. **Here’s…the first…**  
  
“Errghh…” Charles grunted as his belly abruptly tightened, his remaining buttons straining to contain him. The shirt slid upwards and his back arched as his face reddened, and he fidgeted helplessly. He could physically see his belly pushing out by an inch or so.  
  
The growth spurt ended just as quickly as it began, and left Charles slumping in his chair trying to catch his breath.  
  
**You must not resist…**  
  
He felt fuller, _tighter_, as though he had just eaten several times the usual amount. He needed to get out. He needed to—_escape_ the voice somehow. Irrational and disoriented, Charles grasped his desktop and stood.  
  
“Ngghhhh…” He hunched, gripping his gut as it tightened again. It shuddered forward, popping completely free of his shirt. It heaved rapidly up and down with Charles’s heavy breathing. He now looked as though he was nine months pregnant.  
  
**Mmm…that’s two, **said the voice thickly. **You’re so plump and pliable. So full of energy.**  
  
“W-what are you doing to me?” wheezed Charles, still clutching his gut.  
  
**Each of my young is about the size of my own body,** the voice explained. **Oh, you’re such a good host, Charles. Brace yourself. Here comes another.**  
  
“No, please don—nnrrghhh!” His belly filled with pressure, now flushed and sweaty. Charles leaned heavily on his desk as he whimpered and tried to bear it. His belly button swelled unnaturally, pushing out to the size of a chestnut. He was getting _too tight_. He feared that he might burst.  
  
**Oh you’ll get to feed soon enough, Charles. After we’re done here, we’ll get you nice and soft.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more of my stories, visit my **[DeviantArt gallery](https://www.deviantart.com/komperaklause).**
> 
> ** [Story Schedule](https://www.deviantart.com/komperaklause/journal/Story-Access-Schedule-572949651) **


	6. Chapter 6

**You should relax, human. Enjoy. Carrying me and my young should be a comforting experience.**   
  
In his panic, Charles grabbed his blazer off the back of his chair, and did his best to pull it around his swelling body—it was no use. He gasped for breath and thought for several moments, before remembering the baggy T-shirt he usually kept for company picnics and other events. Wobbling over to his filing cabinet, Charles opened a drawer and pulled out the green shirt with the company logo. He shrugged out of the remains of his button-down, and hurriedly jerked the T-shirt over his head.   
  
Some of his belly protruded from the bottom of the tightly-stretched material. Charles did his best to tug it down, and he waddled for the door.   
  
He had almost made his way out of the building, when a small hand connected with his shoulder.   
  
“Great job on the Felder account.”   
  
Charles stood stiffly as his boss, Sue, spoke behind him.   
  
“Charles?”   
  
Four… the voice groaned.   
  
Charles did his best not to groan as well. He shuddered as he gripped his tightening mass with one hand, still tugging down the shirt with the other. Doing his best to contain his gasps for breath, he slowly managed to revolve to face his boss.   
  
Sue’s eyes widened almost comically. Her lips fell apart. She mouthed for words, but couldn’t seem to get anything out. Finally she managed, “You look—erm—well, great job.” She awkwardly nodded, though her gaze never left his throbbing abdomen as sweat seeped into his shirt.   
  
“Thanks,” Charles forced out, feeling immensely exhausted. His eyes widened as his nipples began to sting again, and he quickly raised one of his arms to cover his chest. “I think I’m going to head out. I’m n-not feeling that great,” he managed, knowing that he was flushed, sweaty, and probably looked like a mess.   
  
Sue continued to mechanically nod. He wasn’t sure if she had ever stopped. “Right…right, of course. Feel better.”   
  
Charles nodded back, turned around, and waddled as fast as he could for the door.   
  
“Nrrrggh…” he grunted, as the pressure pushed his belly out another two inches. It swayed with his awkward movements, and his skin prickled about his navel.   
  
**I’m tiring, but there are still morrreeee…**   
  
“Ohhh,” Charles choked, nearly slumping over as he reached his car door. He gripped the hood and held on for dear life. “Just…ohhh…just let me sit down.”   
  
This in itself wasn’t an easy process. He felt that with the wrong move his midriff might explode. But soon Charles found himself seated, leaned back, his heaving belly consistently pressing into the steering wheel. He looked overdue by then. He knew another egg was about to develop. He could feel the pressure growing, slow and steady. “Aahhhhh!” He arched his back, causing his belly to press harder into the steering wheel as he grew. His T-shirt had developed damp spots over both breasts by then, his unusually large nipples visibly protruding in the tight, wet material, which, in turn, was dripping milk. His dick was hard, and squished uncomfortably beneath his stomach. Charles shuddered as he released.   
  
When the growth spurt ended, Charles sank against his seat, tossing his head left and right, feeling helpless. “Six?” he croaked.   
  
**I’ll weaken in the coming days,** the voice murmured. **Afterwards, they will be your responsibility.**   
  
“But I can’t,” Charles moaned. “I’m not meant to—ohhhh…” He twisted and fidgeted somewhat, cupping his navel gently as it trembled.   
  
**Calm yourself child. **The voice sounded weak. **I cannot speak to you for much longer. This was a terrible strain. Why don’t you help the process along…and eat…**   
  
“C-can’t—” Charles protested. “I’m already so _tight!_”   
  
**Eat…**   
  
Charles whined and opened his glove compartment. He found a bag of chocolate bars, and he fumbled awkwardly, as it was more difficult than ever to reach his anus now that he was so large. He messily jammed down his boxers. “It hurts,” he grunted as he maneuvered the first bar of chocolate into his opening.   
  
**Don’t lie,** the voice hissed. **It is only pressure.**   
  
Feeling as graceful as a hippopotamus, Charles managed to insert one chocolate bar after another, until all eight had been jammed into his hole. The voice had claimed that food would help alleviate the tension, but he only felt worse. Tighter, heavier, more burdened than before. By then, he was gasping, and felt faint.   
  
**More…** the voice commanded.   
  
Charles weakly nodded, though he knew he was almost out of food. With trembling fingers, he dug into his briefcase and withdrew his keys, before starting the car. “I’m going, I’m going…” he muttered as he drove off, having to lean uncomfortably against his compacted mound to reach his steering wheel, given how much he had grown.   
  
His nipples ached and seeped more than ever as they were squished against the tight mass of his belly. He had relinquished his efforts to tug down his shirt, and the hem had slid up over his impressively-swollen belly button.   
  
Charles did his best to pacify the voice, which seemed agitated now. At red lights, he would dig the odd snack out of his briefcase—usually a cheese stick—and hurriedly navigate it into his opening. But he could tell that the voice was still displeased. It wanted more this time—_much_ more. Charles cradled his belly and drove as fast as he dared, all while mumbling assurances, to himself and to the voice.   
  
It was only ten minutes before Charles reached the drive-thru, by which point he could already feel the pulses of icy pain throbbing in the back of his head. The voice thrummed impatiently in his consciousness, wanting to feed its—_its eggs_, or whatever they were. Charles gasped out his order into the microphone, before speeding off to the pick-up window, narrowly avoiding rear-ending another car in the process.   
  
He had chosen a restaurant that was both close by and convenient to his purpose. Bob’s Hot Dogs. Charles practically salivated over the five bulging bags of weiners the baffled employee was holding as he handed her some bills.   
  
Charles drove one-handedly, his free hand digging through the fifty individually-wrapped hot dogs, separating them from their buns, and pushing the thick pink sausages directly into his ass. He could feel the sense that he was still growing, but it wasn’t as horrifying or uncomfortable as before. After Charles pulled into his driveway, he lowered his seat so that he was lying back somewhat, and continued to feed his hole. He licked his lips, and watched his fat breasts bob on his chest as one hotdog after the next was shoved into his burning opening.   
  
His eyes went wide as his dick throbbed, a hoarse grunt escaping his lips as electricity coursed through his body. The sensation shot from his groin to his belly then battered his nerve endings, filling his body with raw, hot pleasure until his vision blurred.   
  
And then there was only blackness.   
  
\-   
  
When Charles awoke, his hips felt tight. His opening had an uncomfortable, almost constipated sensation of pain, and Charles’s first instinct told him that something too large was inside of him. Was this an awkward hook-up? Or—_ohh_—a food product? “Errghhh…” He wriggled and pushed, still only partially conscious.   
  
**Do not release them.**   
  
“What…?” Charles opened his eyes and blinked a few times to notice that he was still sprawled in his car, only it was dark outside now. He gasped as he took notice of the large ball perched against him, gently throbbing as though it was _alive_. It was uncomfortably squished against his steering wheel, and with some struggle, Charles pushed his seat back the remaining three inches that it could go. This left his belly still snugly pressing the steering wheel, which was now out of reach of his arms. His cock shot to attention as he again shifted against the incredible tightness within his asshole. His dick began to weep as it jabbed against the underside of his belly.   
  
“Mggghhh…” His hips bucked despite his weight, almost by instinct. He felt as though something was—lodged—inside of him. “Ohhh god…” he moaned, his body quivering, seeping. His face burned.   
  
**Don’t you dare.**   
  
“Why?” Charles grunted, rocking, as something pushed, _crowned_ in his opening. He released a grasp, and spread his thighs the best he could. He gripped his arm rest, struggling for leverage.   
  
**There will be consequences.**   
  
The waves of coldness were back, as was the drilling pain in his head, and Charles was at a loss of which of his problems were the most excruciating.   
  
**I will fill you with twice as many if any harm comes to even one of my children. I will ensure that you burst!**   
  
Charles’s breasts jiggled as he panted. Something was _coming out of him_, something that _didn’t belong_. And yet, he had no choice but to abide by the voice’s commands. He reached down and navigated his hand to his crack. His fingers traced over his swollen bottom, between which bulged a hard, rounded—egg-like—object. A sob tore from Charles’s lips, but he pushed at the intrusive mass, pushed it back _inside_ of him. He choked in pain, his hips aching, his insides feeling as though they were tearing apart. He cried out as he shoved the mass as far as it could go. His belly pulsed more pronouncedly for several beats as he tried to orient himself.   
  
Charles laid there in the dark, releasing sharp gasps for a while. He clamped his thighs shut by impulse even though they were going numb. “What now?” he croaked. “When will I be allowed to d-deliver?”   
  
But the voice had gone silent, and despite his burden, Charles had never felt so alone. 


	7. Chapter 7

He looked as though he was overdue with twins, as though something was _very wrong_ with him, and he should be in treatment for some sort of medical anomaly—certainly not going to work, struggling through the usual office monotony, smiling flippantly but internally terrified.  
  
People would stare at him, but Charles did his best to ignore it.  
  
He tried not to think about the numerous eggs presently incubating inside of him, or how the voice offered its commands, but now infrequently, and sounding terribly weak. Charles tried not to think about how he now snuck off, to push food into his ass, _of his own volition_, because he could no longer imagine the prospect of feeding himself in any other capacity.  
  
And he tried not to think about the fact that he was still steadily _growing_, and he had gone from looking as though he was overdue with twins to triplets in only a matter of days. How he struggled about clutching his increasingly swollen girth as people ogled him, almost as though in fear.  
  
He could barely fit into the bathroom stalls at work, but Charles just managed. He leaned back on the door, panting, his breasts gently bobbing. His nipples seeped milk continuously, and he had to change the padding of his—_god_—his _maternity bra_ several times throughout the day now. His belly was hot, and had the perpetual sense that it was _pulsating_. He was constantly exhausted. Sometimes he could barely catch his breath.  
  
“What do I do?” he whispered feebly, for once, seeking the voice out for guidance.  
  
But again, only silence answered. And it frightened him. The voice had been mute for days now—it had never been silent for this long. Something about the silence was profound and overwhelming. There was an absence where something had been blatantly _present_ for so long. Charles closed his eyes and breathed through his anxiety.  
  
He rubbed the sides of his mass, his stretched button-down sticking to his sweaty body.  
  
It seemed like an appropriate time to give up. To lay down at home, and wait for whatever was meant to happen to happen. But he refused. He cared about his life, and his career, and would not just throw it away. Where would he be now if he had been supine in the first place? He was certain the voice would have managed to split his head open by now, if judging by the relentless pressure and pain it routinely dealt in his skull.  
  
But Charles was alone now, and lost to his next move. Should he just go ahead and birth the eggs? Would there be consequences? What if the voice returned with malice? What if it owned up to the threat to _bursting_ him?  
  
_I’m on that track either way…_ Charles mused, continuing to survey his taut belly, his face blank.  
  
There was also the concern that he _couldn’t_ give birth anymore. The egg had been exceedingly tight in his opening when it had begun to crown several days before, and he had only grown since then. He didn’t even _feel_ the compulsion to push anymore. Then again, he hadn’t tried, had he? Charles sighed and closed his eyes.  
  
He knew that he should consider finally going to the hospital, but that option was just as precarious as all the others. The voice could retaliate from a hospital birth, just as it could if he managed to give birth on his own. And with a hospital, there was the added threat of shock, disgust, and media coverage. He could become a pariah, or worse, a lab experiment.  
  
So Charles stood there, continuing to absently stroke his mass. He hissed out as his belly button twitched, his face reddening in his discomfort. He waited, but things seemed to calm down again. Everything was alright. Charles heaved a sigh.  
  
-  
  
Over the weekend, Charles took a cab back up to his family’s lake house, the baffled driver giving him wary looks through the rearview mirror.  
  
He could barely waddle his way up the drive, by which point he was huffing and puffing, sweat-drenched and lactating profusely.  
  
He dumped his duffle bag in the threshold of the cabin, then exited again, and headed directly for the lake.  
  
He was dressed in a massive tank top, in fact, the largest one he could find online. The fabric was pasted against his swollen D-cup breasts, which were bulging against the low neckline, cleavage flushed. His swollen abdomen bulged out heavily beneath the hem, which barely pulled down to his navel.  
  
He was wearing basketball shorts, which preserved what little he could of his modesty. It took Charles a lot of careful maneuvering to ease himself down on the grass beside the lake.  
  
The water looked normal today.  
  
He panted heavily. He looked overdue with quads by then, not that he was certain what that even looked like. He just felt huge, as though he was attached to an overfilled beach ball. His thighs were already going numb beneath his girth.  
  
By some strange compulsion, Charles fidgeted somewhat, easing himself toward the shore, and the water seemed to draw him in.  
  
Soon he was immersed in the cool, refreshing lake. The surface began to almost glow a faint…purple. He stared at it. His face flushed when his belly suddenly tightened. “Nnghh!”  
  
A contraction.  
  
Things were moving rapidly. He could feel an egg pushing toward his opening, _bigger_, and more painful than the last time. He clamped his legs shut by instinct. What if he wasn’t supposed to? He needed to get out!  
  
But attempting to exit the lake was futile. He was too large, too ungainly. He would never be able to climb back up the slippery banks without some sort of aid.  
  
His stomach was shuddering and aching, the egg _pushing_, and Charles thoughtlessly reached down, quickly clamping his hand over his plump backside.  
  
“Tell me what to do,” he groaned out, breasts hot and throbbing, beginning to push free of his neckline. “What do I—ohhhh…!” His hips bucked automatically. It was stretching him, _splitting him apart_. “Mgggghhh!”  
  
And just before the egg could force its way free, he sensed it.  
  
The presence had returned.  
  
**The End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more of my stories, visit my **[DeviantArt gallery](https://www.deviantart.com/komperaklause).**
> 
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